Five Nights with Mr C
by RiddledRose
Summary: On the way home from his holiday, Nny finds himself stranded in a small town when the engine of his car dies out. He doesn't have enough money to pay for its repair, but thankfully a goofy oldster in a gaudy orange suit has offered to cover the cost if Nny agrees to look after his business for him after hours. Nothing bad could possibly come from that...right?


_**KA-CLUNK! KA-CLUNK!**_

The engine of the sedan groaned and creaked as it eased into the parking lot of the closest gas station. It gave out with a pathetic cough just as the vehicle was switched into park, smoke boiling from beneath its hood. The smell of antifreeze mixed with the smoke permeated the immediate vicinity, bringing looks of disgust to the patrons' faces as they walked past the vehicle.

The owner of the car got out of the driver's side with a loud, exasperated groan. He trudged around and lifted the hood, only to be greated by a giant cloud of smoke exploding in his face. He coughed and wheezed as his arms flailed in front of him, desperately trying to clear the smoke away. He gawked at the machinery before him, one eye bulging skeptically at the sight, before he released a frustrated sigh. He had no idea what the hell he was even looking at.

The man kicked the front passenger tire before storming into the mini-mart, his annoyance only rising further when he saw there was a long line in front of the only open register. He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled sharply as he moved to the back of the line, tapping his foot impatiently while he waited for his turn. When he was finally able to approach the employee behind the counter, he was no longer able to keep his composure and exploded upon his first syllable.

"Listen here, Mister..." the man trailed off long enough to glance at the cashier's nametag, "Mike! My car's outside smoking like the fires of hell, and I'm at least another day's drive away from home. You got a mechanic or something around here that I can talk to?"

Mike cocked a suspicious brow at the gangly man in front of him, clearly put off by the latter's appearance. Sure, they got the odd goth or two every now and then, usually moody teenagers who were passing through town with their dumbass parents. They were never grown men who were in their twenties, like this weirdo.

"There's an auto shop right through there," Mike said blandly after a moment, gesturing to the doorway adjacent to the counter. "Robert's on duty. He'll help you."

The customer was quiet long enough to peer into the glass door before letting out an irritated huff. "Put up a sign or something, dammit," he muttered as he passed through the entrance.

The scent of oil and sweat hung heavy in the room within, causing the man to wrinkle his nose in repugnance. He made his way to the heavy set fellow hunched over what looked like a dirty magazine and cleared his throat loudly so he would be noticed.

Robert jumped and quickly shoved his magazine beneath the counter before looking up at the younger man towering above him. He scrambled to his feet and nodded to his customer in greetings. "Uh, hey there, pal...Can I help you?"

"Sure as hell hope so!" the stranger snapped. "My car started smoking and I've got a long drive yet ahead of me." He crossed his arms and glowered at the floor, pouting something like a child.

Robert coughed and scratched the top of his head, sizing up the oddity of a customer before him. "Well, uh, I can take a look at it, I guess. You wanna show me where it is?" He grabbed a toolbox that rested by his desk and gestured to the door.

Without any further word, the man spun around on his heels and started for the parking lot, where he had left his vehicle. Robert followed closely behind him, catching Mike's cuirous stare as he stepped outside. He shrugged in response to the cashier's silent question, hurrying to catch up to the lanky man ahead of him.

The stranger pointed to his car, a beaten gray sedan that certainly appeared to have seen better times than this. "There was smoke coming out from the hood. I couldn't tell what its deal was."

Robert lifted the hood of the vehicle and gazed at the mechanisms within, then he leaned over further to get a better look. "Could be a few before I figure out the problem, son," he said at last, "How about you head back into the store and grab somethin' hot to drink? It's pretty cold out here, after all."

The man sighed and did as the mechanic suggested, dragging his feet as he made his way back into the mini-mart. He sent a nasty glare at his car, angry that the junkheap couldn't have waited to give out until after he was safe at home from vacation.

Mike watched from his position behind the register as the stranger made rounds around the store, occasionally pausing in front of the Brain Freezy machine to stare at the selection of three flavors. _What a creep,_ he thought as a feeling of uneasiness started to boil up inside of him after a while.

The chime at the entrance of the store broke Mike's thoughts then, causing him to shift his focus to the door. An elderly fellow donning a gaudy orange business suit strode inside of the mini-mart, making a beeline for the beer cooler. He pulled out a six pack of Miller from the fridge and toted it over to the counter. His eyes narrowed slightly upon noticing the cashier. "Hello, Michael," he grunted, dropping the beer in front of the much younger man.

Mike set his jaw and tried to keep calm as he scanned the six pack into the register. "Hey, Mr. Ferguson. Just this for today?" he asked stiffly.

"Give me a pack of smokes. Menthols, if you got them," was all the old man said in response.

Mike turned to the wall of cigarettes behind him, plucking up the first package of menthols that he saw. He hastily tossed them under the scanner and into the bag with Ferguson's beer. The sooner he got rid of this geezer, the better.

"You sure found another job quickly," Ferguson remarked as he pulled his wallet from the pocket of his jacket. "How are you liking it here? You know, I hear employment at a gas station is pretty risky work. Never know when someone might try to rob it or something."

Mike's eye twitched slightly at the remark, but decided not to take the bait. "With all due respect, Mr. Ferguson, I'll take my chances against the robbers," he replied, biting back a more hostile response.

The two of them glared at one another for a moment or two, only to be interrupted by the strange customer as the latter approached the counter.

"Hey, if you guys are done trying to burn holes in each other, I'd like to pay for this Brain Freezy," the man said, waving a jumbo-sized cup in front of Mike's face to emphasize his statement.

Ferguson glanced at him for a moment, confused, then turned back to Mike with an obvious inquiry in his eyes. Mike simply shrugged and keyed the code for the Brain Freezy into the register, ignoring the old man as he accepted the stranger's money.

Robert came into the store just then, his face splattered with grease and oil. "Hey, kid, I got some bad news," he announced, sauntering over to the skinny man's side. "Your engine blew a gasket. It's gonna take a _lot_ of work to get that back in order. Honestly, if it were me, I'd cut my losses and just sell it for scrap or trade it in or somethin'. Unless you got the money to pay for a new engine and the labor to install it, that is."

The stranger frowned and reached for his wallet, letting out an exasperated moan when he realized he didn't have nearly enough money to cover the cost. "Look, pal, I'm from out of town. I can't just buy a new anything, car or engine. Help me out here."

"This ain't a communist country, son. I could probably knock a few dollars here and there, but I can't do a job without getting paid," Robert said flatly. "Sorry, but that's the way it is."

The stranger groaned again and cursed, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. "So what do you suggest I do?" he demanded, casting a venomous glare at the mechanic.

Before Robert could respond, Ferguson interjected into the conversation as he sparked up a cigarette. "How much are we talking here, Robert?" he asked, taking a long drag from the stick of tobacco.

"I'm not even sure, Fred," Robert sighed. "That car's a 1970-something model. Haven't messed with one that old in a long time."

Ferguson seemed to be thinking as he tapped his chin pensively, tapping his foot on the floor in a moderate tempo. Finally he looked up at the stranger and adjusted his tie, as if he were trying to take on a more professional appearance. "Well, kid, you're in luck. See, I run a little business and I just recently had to fire my night watchman. If you could look after the place for a while, until I find a permanent replacement for him, I'll pay to have your car fixed. How's that sound?"

"You have GOT to be kidding me-" Mike started to say, only to be cut off when Ferguson shot him a malevolent glare. The cashier just shook his head and turned his back to the group, pretending to arrange the cigarettes on the wall. It was probably better if he didn't get involved anyway.

"So," Ferguson turned back to the stranger, putting on his best smile, "what do you say, son? Feel like helping an old man out in exchange for the repairs to your car?"

The younger man nodded eagerly, a relieved smile of his own spreading across his face. "Hell yeah, sign me up!"

"Good, good!" Ferguson cheered, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You can start tonight. The night watch is from midnight to 6A.M.. By the way, son, what's your name?"

"It's Johnny," the stranger replied. "Johnny C., but you can call me Nny for short. So what's this business of yours called?"

Ferguson adjusted his tie and grinned again at Johnny, a look of pride lighting up his place. "Oh, it's a local establishment I opened years ago for the kiddies. Just a little restaurant called Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria."


End file.
